When I was a kid my family used to spend occasional summer weeks in London, house-sitting for some friends. Not far from the local adventure playground, where taller, harder boys played rough games on the painted wooden architecture, was a toy shop. It was a small shop, even when I was small myself, and I remember it being the kind of magical place that could only exist in a film, run by a smiling old woman and her sleepy cat. The toys filled every nook and most of the crannies and were wholesome un-marketed products that would never be rude enough to shout at you from a Saturday morning TV screen.
Amazingly, the place still exists, and my sister has written an article about it. It sounds like, for once, my little childhood memories are accurate.